"Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capons,

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distilled per se,

Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings,
And mony mae."

"Wae 's me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,"
Quo' I; "if that thae news be true,
His braw calf-ward where gowans grew,
Sae white and bonny,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh;
They'll ruin Johnny!"

The creature grained an eldritch laugh,
And says:
"Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be tilled eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear :

They'll a' be trenched wi' mony a sheugh,
In twa-three year.

"Whare I killed ane a fair strae death,
By loss o' blood or want o' breath,
This night, I'm free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook's skill

Has clad a score i' their last claith,
By drap and pill.

"An honest wabster to his trade,

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

When it was sair;

The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne'er spak mair.

"A bonny lass, ye ken her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame;
She trusts hersel', to hide the shame,
To Hornbook's care;

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.

“A country laird had taen the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts;
His only son for Hornbook sets,
And pays him well ——

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
Was laird himsel',

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; Thus goes he on from day to day,

Thus does he poison, kill, and slay,
An's weel paid for 't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey
Wi' his d-d dirt.

“But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o''t; I'll nail the self-conceited sot

As dead's a herrin':

Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin'!”

But just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell,

Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which raised us baith:

I took the way that pleased mysel',
And sae did Death.

WE

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

HILE briers and woodbines budding green,
And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en,

And morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'

I

pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin',
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin';
And there was muckle fun and jokin',
Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife:

It thirled the heart-strings through the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel,
What generous manly bosoms feel;

Thought I, “Can this be Pope, or Steele,

They tauld me 't was an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear 't,
And sae about him there I spier 't,
Then a' that kent him round declared
He had ingine,

That nane excelled it, few cam near 't,
It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale,
And either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel',
Or witty catches,

"Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, and swore an aith,
Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death

At some dyke back,

A pint and gill I'd gie them baith
To hear your crack.

But, first and foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Though rude and rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sell,
Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
And hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter!

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

And say:

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
"How can you e'er propose,
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What 's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools?
If honest Nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college-classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak ;

And syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire!
That's a' the learning I desire;

Then though I drudge through dub and mire At pleugh or cart,